


Ad Meliora

by archeolatry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Barbarian Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Deansturbation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Language Barrier, Language Difference, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Roman Britain, Roman Castiel, Scenting, Slave Dean Winchester, Zachariah is a perv, teenage dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: As the Emperor Michael's brother and procurator, it seems as though half of the empire is upon Castiel's shoulders. There are barbarian hordes attacking from the north, endless warring between the emperor and their brother Lucifer, and a freshly-arrived senator who thinks himself far above his station. But when Zachariah brings him the offering of a handsome bed slave, Castiel may yet see that there's more to his new island home than cold and rain.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Anna Milton
Comments: 77
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look who finally got the intestinal fortitude to actually write some stuff down. And look, another quasi-historical AU. _Quelle surprise._
> 
> (I say ‘quasi’ because I don’t ever actually say Rome, or Latin, or Roman Britain outside of the tags, ‘cuz if I make it official I have to fall down an endless research rabbit hole for world building’s sake. {Not to mention pondering the dynamics of women, slaves, and omegas in a patriarchal society like the Romans had.} Unless you’re a historian specializing in this time period, just enjoy the angst and porn. [And if you are, I’m open to corrections/suggestions!])
> 
> So... uh, this is my first A/B/O. (I'm still squicked out by mpreg, but I love me some power dynamics so here we are.) I don't know if I'm tagging too much or not enough, or if adding certain tags are gonna send some people screaming for the hills and make everyone think the whole story is really dark and awful when it's really just the first two chapters that are iffy on the surface (because Real History is Not Cool sometimes, even if it's sanitized for a cheap romance fic)... so what I'm saying is check the end of the chapter if you're concerned. If you feel any temporary tags are needed, or if you feel something needs to be a permanent tag after Chapter 3, let me know and I'll fix it. 
> 
> If you enjoy it, _please_ leave me a comment. This is unfinished as of yet, so if I don't think anyone likes it I don't know how much motivation I'll have to continue. 
> 
> Props to CookieMonsta and [Banshee](http://www.archiveofourown.com/users/banshee1013) for going over this with new eyes.
> 
>  ~~I'm aiming for a fortnightly update, being as I have _literally_ nothing else to do at the moment. Fingers crossed.~~ HAHAHAHAHAHAAA. Ha. (Remember when we thought this shit was gonna hopefully be over in a few months and we were all trying to better our lives? Yeah. Good times.)

Castiel must have been daydreaming. And who wouldn’t, over these endless maps and figures? He had perhaps stared too long at the brown almond barbarians in the north, or the little golden gobbets of dried fig that stood in for Michael’s forces to the south, for he swore he could smell lemons. Lemon blossoms, full and white; fat little green globes that would ripen to sunny yellow; the scents all sweet and tart with the musk of bitter leaves underneath.

He used to pick them on the family villa, climbing into the trees to reach the highest fruit. His brothers and sisters made a game of it, seeing who could gather the most lemons or figs or apples. How warm the sun-ripe fruits were in his hand…

But with the heavy slap of leather marching against stone, he was again at his desk, in this cold and damnable land of wind and rain. Moreover, those heady scents of childhood were cut through with the souring-milk smell that belonged to Zachariah.

The beta had landed on these shores last summer and immediately began dividing the villa into those worth his time and those not. The former he fell onto with sycophantic fastness. The latter he ignored with an imperious sort of disregard usually reserved for an emperor, not a lesser senator desperate for validation.

As the emperor’s brother and procurator (to say nothing of his status as an alpha), Castiel fell in with the former.

A knock sounded hard and heavy against his door.

“Enter.” He glared harder at his parchments and tablets; the intrusion might be short if he looked _truly_ busy.

In came Zachariah, as ever in full senatorial laticlavius, smirking like the cat who ate the canary.

“Hello, Zachariah.”

The beta bowed. “Castiel. Hard at work, as ever.”

“Our army marches on their stomachs,” he replied dryly, “and until my brother sees fit to send further aid, the practicalities of this provincial war must fall to me.” 

“Practicality is the handmaiden of doubt,” Zachariah recited, oddly sanguine. “Though I’m sure a master tactician such as yourself can find a way.” 

“I do try, though it’s hardly worth the salt anymore.” 

“You say that now,” Zachariah grinned, “but when our coffers are heaped with Northern gold, you’ll sing a different tune. I’m sure your excellent brother will grant you land and slaves enough to make any man happy.”

“When our coffers are heaped with Northern gold —and _after_ our soldiers have seen their share— I intend to take the first ship away from this forsaken island,” Castiel huffed. “A man could live out his days here and never see as much sunshine as he would in a week back home.”

“So you intend to leave the country when the war is won?” The beta arched a questioning brow.

“ _If_ this war is won, yes.”

“ _If?_ Your lack of confidence wounds me, Castiel.”

Castiel bit back a scoff. The senator knew nothing of battle nor wounds.

Zachariah continued. “And your sister, she shares your opinion of this place...?”

“My sister is entitled to her own opinion,” Castiel said. “She seems well taken with it. And if her companion gives her the strength to endure this weather then they may stay or go as they please.” 

“Yes, a companion!” The beta clapped his hands in delight- a movement which startled Castiel. “Precisely.”

“What are you playing at, senator?”

“I’ve brought you a gift. One that might tame that saturnine disposition of yours.” He then side-stepped out of the way, directing someone into the room with a sweep of his hands. Inias, the physician, stepped in cautiously and with a deep bow.

Before Castiel could inquire further about this intrusion, in came the twin sentries Ezekiel and Gadreel, flanking either side of a young man with his arms bound in front of him.

He was the most beautiful creature Castiel had ever seen.

Castiel rose to his feet without a thought, as if pulled to the boy by gossamer ropes. At least he had the good sense to close his gawping mouth.

The boy was lean —perhaps _too_ lean— and bronzed, his golden-brown hair flopping onto his forehead. As he drew closer, Castiel could see a generous peppering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His lips looked even softer from this small distance. A little fuzz even graced the line of his defiantly-jutted chin. And those eyes! Green as an autumn olive!

The tunic they had draped on him was designedly short, and pinned at his shoulders so that anyone with the slightest imagination could deduce the shape underneath. If not for propriety’s sake, Zachariah probably would have marched him through the palace in a loincloth.

“For you, your excellency,” the senator preened. “ A bit of Northern gold, if you will.”

The boy was heartbreakingly beautiful, but so, _so_ young… His nose, his hands, his ears were all oversized. Despite the fact that he was nearly of a height with Castiel, he seemed little more than a pup.

“Where did you find him?”

“A legion brought him down with a few dozen others. He was caught south of the wall, trying to steal a horse.” Zachariah grabbed the boy’s bicep, revealing a tattoo on its paler underside— a swirling, fluid depiction of a leaping deer in black ink. “This indicates he’s a chieftain’s son.” He slapped at the boy’s face. “Imagine the breed price they would have gotten. A pretty omega like this is worth at least a few oxen.” 

Castiel met those green eyes, and glimpsed in them an animus he’d not seen since Michael and Lucifer last fought. But past that hatred, beyond that wall of bravado, there huddled fear. He could almost smell it…

“And he has presented as an omega?” Castiel asked the room. “He certainly doesn’t smell like one. In fact, he doesn’t smell like much of anything.”

Inias cleared his throat. “All examinations suggest he soon will, my liege.”

“Oh?”

“He slicked up at the slightest touch like an omega whore,” Zachariah leered.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. The beta’s voracity was stomach-churning. “So he has _not_ presented.”

“No, your excellency. I…” Zachariah faltered, but then leaned in conspiratorially close. “I thought perhaps…frankly, I thought it might not matter. The eyelashes, those fine features—he’s already got the look of an omega about him.” His eyes swept the boy up and down with a hungry look. “Tell me those lips weren’t made to be wrapped around a knot.”

“And you believe that I require a bed slave, Zachariah?”

“I believe a man ought to have one if he can.” Zachariah clapped him on the shoulder. “You think too much on war, Castiel. Drink wine! Play dice! Keep a boy to warm your bed and calm your furrowed brow. Let him be a balm to you, lest you go mad with duty.”

“I prefer my men bearded; or, at least, capable of growing one. This boy can have no more than fourteen summers to his name.”

A small, satisfied smile turned the beta’s thin lips. “If he’s not to your taste, excellency, I could find work for him.”

There was the the truth of it! The boy was an empty promise— a gift of meat to a man without teeth. And Zachariah was licking his own chops far too eagerly. 

“But who am I to deny such a gorgeous gift? And perhaps I’ve overlooked the charms of youth too long.” He arched a single brow in inquiry. “Wouldn’t you agree, senator?”

Zachariah’s face fell, but for no longer than the blink of an eye. He affected a smile. “Of course, Excellency.”

“He has been bathed? And thoroughly examined?” Inias nodded. “Very good.” Castiel looked Dean over, praying he looked lustier than he felt. “Have him taken to my apartments under guard. And he is to stay under guard until I return.”

Inias ducked his head. “It shall be done, my liege.” The physician turned on his heel and began the march towards Castiel’s wing of the villa. Ezekiel and Gadreel followed, taking the boy right along with them.

He watched, stomach still twisting, as the boy drug his feet along the marble, determined to impede their progress but only taxing his feet and elbows. He was too thin to fight them with any real efficacy. Not those twin walls of muscle.

Castiel likewise turned to face his own work, settling into the embrace of the leather and the urgency of his tablet.

Zachariah stood at almost the very inch of floor he had entered on, thumbs twiddling. His eyes were flat and his grin was false. The very air around him seemed heavy with expectation.

“Were you in need of something else, Zachariah?” Castiel asked over his figures.

“You’ll forgive me, your excellency, but I had hoped to be thanked for such a gift.” His scent practically curdled.

“I suppose you’d expect Caesar to thank you for the gift of a dagger.”

The beta only grinned wider, his dull grey eyes now flinty. “I beg your pardon?” 

“A wary shepherd questions gifts from the wolf,” Castiel continued, “no matter how appealing.”

Zachariah licked his thin lips. “Excellency, I understand that we may have our differences—”

“That will be all, Zachariah.”

The beta scowled, grunted a protest. “If—”

Castiel glared at him from under his lashes. “That will be _all_ , Zachariah.”

Zachariah bowed to Castiel, all smiles and smarm once again. “Excellency.” He shuffled backward out of the room, closing the doors as he left.

Castiel sighed heavily- part relief, part frustration. Such foot-licking and kowtowing might have endeared the beta to Michael, but earned Zachariah no favors in his books. He had no need of senators who mistook a delegation to nowhere as an ascension of personal power. Furthermore, Castiel had no need for a bed slave—especially not some captured barbarian too young to even present.

He shuddered. The thought of Zachariah having his way with that boy brought an unexpected growl to his lips, followed by a flush of shame that he felt all the way to his ears. _Fourteen summers!_ he scolded himself. _You cannot begin to **consider** claiming a boy of fourteen summers._ Instinct aside, he should not bare his teeth at the mere shadow of a threat. 

The boy would have some measure of safety in his apartment—Zachariah dared not approach him there. Surely someplace could be found for him. 

Besides which, Castiel had far more pressing matters—tactics to be considered, messages to send. War could not wait on a single handsome omega.

## 

λ ᚷ

The guards set him down roughly in a luxuriously furnished room. Dean could not decide if this was the best or worst possible outcome. Since they’d captured him, it seemed that every move he made—every place he went—began and ended with him in ropes or chains, and this place was no different.

Upon his capture, he was loaded into a cage too short to stand in. No doubt a temporary solution- they would likely kill him once they discovered it was his clan that had been digging trap pits and untethering their horses. He figured that he’d last a day at most, but Dean counted five sunsets from his cage before he was made to march. 

By day, they stared at him as he slogged through the mud. Men of command lorded over his cage with narrowly masked intrigue; the rank and file spat at him, and poked him with their spears. At night, they fed him slop he’d think twice about feeding his own pigs, and placed a collar around his neck. It attached to a heavy weight by a short chain. He was given his own cage, however, and his own guard. He supposed he should be grateful.

He heard the screams and sobs of the women and the breeders in the camp as they were passed from soldier to soldier. Some of those defilers came up to his cage in the night, trying to offer him their cocks, trying to grab at his long hair or his chin and pull him closer. Often his guard would protest and curse at them in their foreign tongue, making them turn away in a thick, sour cloud of rejection. One of them didn’t turn away. He lost a finger. 

Dean was whipped for that. He was whipped for speaking, and he was whipped for his silence. And with every passing day, his hope for rescue fell more dim. The word —the notion— was like a sore in his mouth- a pained thought that he could not help but nudge no matter how it hurt: _slave_. He was to be presented and sold like chattel, never to see his clan again.

Each day, as they rode farther and farther from his home and his clan, they tied him to a number of other men and women behind a horsecart and marched them across muddy fields. He walked until field became track became road. Trees yielded to milestones, and the clop of hooves never stopped until they reached the city center.

Dean knew this place, once. They traded here, when they had wool to spin rather than axes to forge. Back when his mother was alive. They’d ride down by cart and sleep under the stars, and he knew how close they were to the market by the rushing of the great river. 

There were walls now. And a stone bridge, and a stone road, and stone buildings. The invaders had taken every tree and replaced it with stone that stretched halfway to the clouds. The market bustled despite being so early in the spring that they’d only had three sunny days strung together. When he was a boy, the air was sweet with summer grass and shorn lambs at market time; now the stink of horse dung clashed with pungent spices and the smell of rain. This was not the place he knew.

The mounted command drove them through the streets, past the stares and scents, past the baying of beasts, until they reached the very edge of the city’s walls. There stood a house grander than any he had seen- either of his clan’s or on his march. So large, in fact, that it had four roofs made of red clay, and a stone outbuilding to the side. 

Under the roof he was marched, through a passage that squeezed them shoulder to shoulder, and finally herded into a grey stone room. There, finally, they stopped. Some dropped where they stood, chains and all. Dean swayed on his feet but held himself against the wall. He feared if he closed his eyes but a moment that he might never wake up.

He was untied long enough to rub his chafed wrists before he was led into another room- this one with a shallow copper tub. There he was roughly bathed and shorn by a woman with dark brown hair. After, he was chained again —this time by his ankle— and shown to pile of straw in a stone cell with three others. Stripes from the lash still bit into his back, and kept him awake until he simply collapsed from fatigue.

It was not the lash or the toil, but the loss of his little brother that truly broke him. Dean had torn into Sam, telling him that he was too young for battle; that he should stay and learn smithing from the old men. But the boy was clever, growing by leaps and bounds, and would almost certainly present as a stud, so their father pressed a sword into his hand.

Their last words to each other had not been kind. The worst part was not knowing if that exchange was to be their final one.

Dean felt his life could get no bleaker. At least, not until this morning.

The short and bearded man —called Fergus and Crowley in equal measure by his drudges— shook him awake, roaring at him in a tongue he barely understood. He was pulled to his feet by guards and marched through the cells; past a score of other wretched humans who met his eyes only for a moment. Was their fate to be better or worse than his own?

Before he could even consider such, he was thrown, blinking and squinting, into a grand and spacious room. 

As his eyes adjusted (how long had since he had seen the sun? Hours? Days?), he gradually took in the mottled columns and tiles of black marble that gave the room a sepulchral feel. This, along with the high, open ceiling, left one the impression of staring up at the sky from one’s own grave. Down a wide set of steps was an intricate mosaic floor, depicting great fantastical beasts that devoured men whole.

Dean shivered.

A glance to either side of him found that a dozen or so others —a mix of studs, breeders and plain lupes, by the looks of them— had been brought as well. They all seemed to be of the younger sort; all were clean, straight-backed, and possessed of some handsomeness. All save for him looked dead ahead, making no eye contact even with Crowley. They locked their hands behind their backs, their limbs drawn tight as bowstrings and their jaws quivering just the same.

A door opened in the distance, and Dean found himself falling into position: legs apart, shoulders straight, head held high.

A pudgy, balding man in a toga ( _A dress_ , Dean thought to himself, and tried not to smirk) entered with sunlight at his back and a disdainful sneer on his face. At his right was a taller, more muscular man with deep, acorn-brown skin and a fully bald head. At his left was another tall man, dark-haired and beetle-browed, with a blankly ogreish look to him.

The balding man was of some rank, apparently, to be escorted by two stud guards, and for Crowley’s usual scowl to soften into something resembling a grin. He spoke a few words to the bald man before indicating the gathered slaves with a sweep of his hand.

Dean swallowed hard.

The balding man paced leisurely in front of them, appraising them with cold, grey, critical eyes. He spoke a few words to Crowley and, with a wave of his hand, the women turned on their heels and left. Dean swore he heard a collective puff of relief as they filed out.

The other men fell into rank immediately, closing the gaps left behind. Dean startled into place, trying to fall into his previous position.

When he looked ahead again, he found the balding man’s eyes honed directly in upon him, wearing a leer that he would soon become all too familiar with. The balding man pointed, and Crowley nodded with a wide grin.

No. No no no no no.

Inside his head, he was screaming. _Run_ , the voice said. Run, and damn the consequences. But his legs simply quivered, and the only movement the drumming of his heart in his chest.

Crowley and the balding man argued; their voices escalated from growls to shouts until the balding man’s guards surrounded Crowley. To his credit, Crowley did not cower. But he _did_ clench his bared teeth. He barked at his guards, and suddenly a hand was on each of Dean’s shoulders. 

The wagon ride was long, and no doubt _felt_ even longer crammed cheek-to-jowl with three others. They jostled each other with every bump in the road. The bald man was taken away by two men —not his guards; Slaves, no doubt— on a luxurious chair strapped to two poles, and was taken away on their strained shoulders. 

Their windows were little more than slits, letting in little air and less light, but Dean could smell their direction. Dung and spice met and departed his nose, and, by the time the sun was high, was replaced by hay and grasses. 

After a few calls and cracks of the whip, the wagon came to an abrupt stop. The barricade upon the door was lifted, and he was again thrown into the blinding sunlight. The house before him now was so grand as to make Crowley look like a beggar in comparison. They stood in a great plain of dirt, closed in on three sides by long, tall stone houses. Behind them stood a wall and a tower; and, at every turn of his head, there were soldiers. There were horses and oxen; men with hand carts and women with baskets. All the chaos of the city market confined in one square.

More soldiers appeared at his elbows in a blink. Two for him, four for the others. They were marched away at spearpoint, off to parts unknown. Dean was marched up a set of stairs and into a long, wide hall.

He could only take in the slightest glimpse of the paintings on the walls, or the gaily decorated statues that flanked the wide stone hallways, before he was brought to yet another painted room- this one containing a dour blonde. Her orders came firm through tone and gesture: Strip. March to the next room.

First he was urged into a pool of hot water. There the blonde woman bathed him even more roughly than Crowley’s servant had; as if he was all filth down to his very soul. She ran a fine comb through his hair, pulling at his tender scalp and rooting around for nits. More water was poured over his head and back, making his wounds sting. Dean was then chased into another room and another pool, this one cold enough to make his teeth chatter. He was then ushered into a third room, still naked and half-frozen with spring chill, and was bid to wait upon a stone bench. 

His lashes throbbed, and the cold seemed to be seeping through them and into his very bones. This room, at least, was warm and dry. He curled upon himself, waiting for the return of the blonde. 

Instead came the bald man, accompanied by another he’d not seen before- tall, slender, and blue-eyed with a hawkish nose. His demeanor was calm as the bald man’s was lecherous. 

The slender man examined him much as Crowley had, though with a far less impatient hand. He held Dean’s eyes open one at a time, inspecting them for Dean knew not what. Likewise Dean’s mouth, probing his finger along the inside of his cheeks and along his gums before tugging at Dean’s teeth. The man’s thumbs rested on either side of his throat before poking under his armpits.

This must have been a healer for these invaders. Dean had had fever a handful of years back, and the clan’s own healers had tested him just so.

The healer poked his belly with the pads of three fingers, circling his navel; when he got no reaction from Dean (other than a curious stare), his hands gripped Dean’s waist, his thumbs prodding again on either side.

Dean’s unease grew as his hands anchored tighter on Dean’s sides, and as he lowered himself onto one knee, dangerously close to his manhood. The healer was handsome, in a way, and in any other circumstance Dean might have even welcomed the touch. But now it nearly shriveled as it was handled.

His foreskin was peeled back and inspected, and the base of his cock was pinched mercilessly between the man’s thumb and forefinger, presumably to find a knot. When no sign of one appeared, the healer spoke a few words to the bald man, not addressing Dean in the least.

If these invaders spoke even a single tongue besides their own, he would have given them the information they sought. In the northlands, they were called either studs or breeders. He himself was neither. Not yet.

The bald man barked the same words back at Dean. Clearly they were orders, but they meant nothing.

He pulled at Dean’s right arm until he turned, facing the bench and the wall, his cheeks absolutely ablaze. The bald man commanded him again— one word this time. Dean bit at the inside of his lip. He would not cry, he would not cry…

A hard slap landed on his back, and he howled in pain, falling over double before catching his balance on the edge of the bench. He immediately felt the oppressive weight of a hand on the back of his neck, keeping him bent.

One heavy hand dug into the flesh of his backside while another —the healer’s far more gentle one— parted his other cheek, exposing his hole. One long finger circled his rim before pushing inside, no doubt searching for slick.

Dean sniffled. He would not cry, he would not cry…

The finger was gone nearly as soon as it entered, and Dean breathed his respite. All hands left his body, and there was no protest, save from his wounded back, when he stood. 

He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for one more strike; one more intrusion upon his person. The healer’s assessing gaze was on him as he spoke to the bald man. Dean turned slowly where he stood, his face hot with fear and shame. 

It was not until he saw the look upon the bald man’s face —like those soldiers in the night so many moons ago— that he truly understood: he was destined to be a bed-slave.

Though it burned his throat and stung his eyes, he would not cry in front of this horrible man. He would not.

The same blonde woman that had bathed him had reappeared before his blurry eyes. In one hand was a long strip of sky-blue fabric. Some rough linen cloth -some garment- was slung over one shoulder.

She took him by both wrists, pulling his hands straight out in front of him before tying them together. Over and across his arms, in and through the ever-tightening gap between them, she braided the cloth until he felt his arms might swell and fall off. The garment was pinned carefully, and with great attention paid to a straight seam, at his shoulders. Dean had not worn a thing so short since he could control his bowels. 

The bald man clapped in two short, sharp bursts- no doubt calling for someone. In stepped two men- two geminous sentries, both tall and sober-faced with chins like iron and eyes like flint. Each gripped an arm firmly enough to bruise. The message was clear- he was outmuscled, outnumbered, and utterly surrounded. Resistance was useless.

The bald man grinned again— this one, however, did not reach his eyes. His head was not held as high, nor his back as straight. His voice was as firm and commanding as ever, though, and he bid the guards and the healer to follow behind him. 

Dean was marched through still another painted hall, past shimmering ponds and gardens thick with the perfume of their buds. This he knew, was not the realm of slaves and soldiers. The bald man was clearly a man of power...but why the guard, why the fanfare, if he was only to be used for the bald man’s pleasure? Was he simply rubbing salt into Dean’s wounds? Parading the captured son of their enemy over their stolen land before the final disgrace of fucking him raw? 

He couldn’t fight, but could he still run? 

The thought died as soon as it was formed, for the party came to a halt in front of a set of heavy doors. The bald man knocked, and was given permission to enter. He spoke —Did he ever shut up?— to a man inside. Then the healer entered, bowing before making way for the guards. 

When Dean entered the room, he knew exactly who he was intended for.

While he had the same golden-warm skin as many of the invaders did, the stud’s eyes were the same blue as his garments; his hair was black and untidy as a crow’s wing. The contrast was striking, and brought Dean out of himself for a heartbeat or two. 

The stud was lean and well-muscled, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose. And as he drew near, Dean caught the rich scents of peat smoke and evergreen. Those blue eyes roamed over Dean’s face, his skin; regarded his bound arms and bared thighs in the embarrassing garment draped over him.

The stud spoke to the bald man —was ‘Zachariah’ his name or title?— who pulled at Dean’s arm, displaying his tattoo. Did the bald man or the stud know the meaning? It seemed not to matter. The bald man roughly patted his face in condescension, and it took all Dean had not to bite his stubby fingers off.

Blue Eyes seemed indifferent to him, both in speech and manner, while Zachariah continued to stare at him the way a dog eyes a laden spit. Both talked over him, _through_ him, until Blue Eyes snapped out an order and the bald man smiled. Then the guards’ fists tightened around his arms, pulling him and willing him to follow them out.

Dean went limp. He would not go quietly to his own rape. Biting and clawing meant the lash again- or worse. But to let his limbs fall loose would make work for them. He would grit his teeth and be taken, and when the invader had fallen asleep he would find something— _anything_ —and take his revenge. Spill their brains. Shed their blood. Escape by any means, even if it meant his life. The gods were good to those who died in battle.

He would not die an invader’s plaything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags
> 
>   * Non-descriptive non-con/mentions of rape (unnamed characters) 
>   * Threat/fear of rape (main character) 
>   * Invasive medical examination (main character) 
> 



	2. Chapter 2

Castiel had never been so anxious to enter his own apartments.

He’d brought Ezekiel (or Gadreel—the two seemed to answer to the others’ name) as guard, with Samandriel the kitchen servant trailing behind, nearly lurching under the burden of a great silver tray. If Castiel was lucky, the barbarian boy could be pacified with food. If not…well, the tray was a poor excuse for a shield, and not truly heavy nor pointed enough to be a blunt weapon. Even the little silver bowls of honey and figs were hammered thin as an apple peel.

The three arrived at Castiel’s door, where one guard, Theo, already stood in wait. Castiel regarded them with a nod.

“Has there been any disturbance?”

“None that I’ve heard, excellency. He’s been exceptionally quiet.” 

Castiel frowned. That could either be very good news or very bad news indeed. The gods knew that if he had found their fortunes reversed, he’d be sharpening every twig he could set his hands on. Anything to stab, to slash…

He lost a few moments to thoughts of blood and battle, and found himself absentmindedly running a hand across his belly.

“Ezekiel, I’ll have you enter first, and you, Theo, will follow me. Samandriel, you will wait here until you are called for.” The young man nodded. “If we cry out, you are to drop this platter and run for the hall, do you hear me? Call for the guards and send them here at once.”

“I understand, Excellency.”

“Good.” Castiel steeled his shoulders before throwing a look to one guard and then the other. Ezekiel bowed his head and placed himself between Castiel and the door. One good shove and it slammed open, its hinges creaking in protest before hitting the plaster wall.

Instead of finding the boy in the middle of some plot or hunched over a makeshift weapon, he simply sat, wide-eyed, on the bed, obviously spooked by the sudden noise. Castiel regretted his entrance at once.

Ezekiel swept his eyes across the room, searching for anything amiss. Theo did likewise, peering under furniture and prodding at chair and table legs with the tip of his boot to assure they were still attached. Castiel himself did neither; he simply stared at the boy, waiting for some expression of guilt or hatred to cross his face and give the game away. Instead, all he saw was that thin veneer of impudence painted across a mask of dread.

“Samandriel,” he called over his shoulder, “you can come in now.”

In he came with his silver tray, and the boy’s eyes widened immediately, following Samandriel’s every step. Samandriel set the tray down upon the table nearest the bed, just out of the boy’s reach. The disappointment was clear on his face. He could not reach, and he dare not beg. He simply looked at it with such longing that Castiel’s heart broke a little. 

“You may leave us, the three of you. Ezekiel, relieve Theo and take your place across the hall. If you’re needed, I’ll shout for you.”

All three bowed their heads before turning and filing out. Samandriel took the door by the handle as he exited, closing it, and leaving the two of them in very pointed silence.

The boy’s eyes darted to his bindings, to the door, to the food and then finally met Castiel’s gaze. The apple of his throat bobbled with a heavy swallow as the alpha drew closer and settled his weight upon the edge of the bed.

Try as he might, Castiel couldn’t _not_ stare; he hadn’t dreamt the flecks of gold in those eyes, nor the freckles that extended to his neck and shoulders and every bit of exposed flesh.

Zachariah was right—a beautiful omega like this one would fetch a breed price measured in oxen or gold. An immediate wave of disgust fell over him, and he turned his eyes instead to the long strip of cloth that trussed the boy’s arms together. He should not think those things.

Castiel nudged him closer with gentle tugs on the fabric until his bound hands came to rest on Castiel’s knee. He found himself shaking his head and tutting under his breath. Hester had fashioned a traditional mating knot- designed to keep omegas bound lest they decide to run away from their arranged mates. The cord was tied under the omega’s elbows, so they must rely on the mercy of another to be freed.

It was a deplorable old practice, Castiel thought with a huff, and the boy had likely been tied for hours. The poor thing was probably in tremendous pain. And Zachariah would likely have kept him so until his needs were sated. Ugh. 

Castiel pulled and tugged the fabric until finally it fell free. He wrapped it around the width of his own hand and looped the end around the fabric thrice, tucking and tying the end. He’d tied it like a strip of bandage without even noticing. Old habits, he supposed.

The boy put his arms to his sides, and took a short breath of relief. But once their eyes met again, that momentary glimpse of color and life drained from the boy’s face. 

He looked at Castiel with resignation, and swallowed. He then crawled on his elbows and knees to the middle of the bed and pulled up his tunic, presenting his bare ass before laying his forehead to the linens.

Castiel’s heart nearly stopped.

_Fuckclaimbreed_ , his wolf-mind snarled, and his cock throbbed in approval. But his rational mind had the good sense to object. “No,” he found himself saying, much to his wolf-mind’s vexation.

The boy turned his head, his eyes glossy with unshed tears. _What are you waiting for?_ he seemed to say. _Just get it over with._

He pulled what little fabric there was to the tunic back down. “No.” Pretty as the boy was, he wouldn’t take him terrified and unwilling. He placed his hand on the boy’s lower back, urging him to lay his belly to the mattress. The boy did so while watching Castiel’s every move. 

In the next breath, he began to wail. Sobs wracked his slim body, his face contorted into a mask of tragedy. His long, golden lashes clumped together wetly beneath red-rimmed eyes.

Castiel froze. His assurances would be no comfort- not with the language barrier between them. And he dared not attempt to soothe the boy, for he didn’t think his touch would be in any way welcomed. 

By the gods, what was he to do?

As he looked down upon his unlikely charge, he noticed a long, thin line of pinkish-red across the boy’s back. Could that be…?

With a mother-gentle touch, he found the pins holding the tunic at the omega’s shoulders and drew them away, first on his left side and then on his right. Castiel then peeled the linen away from the boy’s back, exposing three long lesions; the size and length told him it was from a whip.

The smallest two were superficial, but were angry and swollen; they would become scars if not tended to. The larger one was deep, the skin split open to the flesh underneath, with a pale yellow fluid visible at its gaping edges. That one was certainly infected and only likely to get worse. 

He snarled before he could think not to. From whom had this boy come? What legion, what slaver? Moreover, how could Inias see these welts and not be moved to heal them? Did Hester not notice them, or had she ignored them outright? Both would be reprimanded accordingly. But for now…

Castiel reached onto his plate for the tiny bowl of honey, and with two fingertips, began to daub it onto the boy’s wound. He hissed at the contact, but stayed something like still.

In the bowl was enough honey to seal the largest gash. For the smaller ones, Castiel reached for the jar of almond oil at his bedside. He considered for a moment, wondering if it were fit for medicinal use. It had eased his way during his last rut and kept him from sloughing his own member off with use, but hadn’t been used for its true purpose. (How long since he’d bedded a beta? Since he’d bedded _anyone_?)

He poured it onto his first three fingers and, with the same care, massaged the oil into the boy’s shallow cuts. He wiped what was left at the edges of the honeyed skin. A bandage may not be necessary, but only time would tell. If he could sit without pain, move his arms and straighten his back…

Castiel slipped his hand under the boy’s chin, finding the bedding beneath him soaked. Poor thing had cried like a pup. He cupped the boy’s face so that their eyes might meet.

“Sit up for me.” He gestured with open palms, his fingers twitching upward. How he hoped the boy would understand! All he had now were his hands and the timbre of his voice to mollify the scared omega before him.

Thankfully he seemed to understand and sat up slowly, as if testing his own skin. Castiel’s gaze skimmed his chest -smooth as a marble statue- until catching on the ribs and clavicles that were beginning to show. Castiel tied the two ends behind the the boy’s neck with haste, pinning them there as best he could with his gaze averted.

He was not Wolf, he was Man— no matter what primal sort of urges tugged in his belly. He must speak with words, not sniff and growl. And if he could not shelter and protect a scared omega, then he was truly no better than a dog. 

“I am Castiel,” he said, placing a hand on his own chest. “Cas-tee-el.” He pointed to the boy. “What is your name?”

The boy, for his part, placed his hand in the center of his own chest, looking a little confused and unsure. Castiel pointed to himself again. “Castiel,” he repeated, before turning the finger back in the boy’s direction.

He thumped his chest lightly, and when Castiel smiled and nodded in approval, he uttered a single syllable. “Dean.” His voice was gruff for so young a man, but it could easily be dismissed- his throat could still be raw from weeping.

“Are you hungry, Dean?” Castiel asked, patting his own stomach. As if to drive his point home, he brought his first three fingers together and raised them to his mouth. Dean nodded yes so quickly his poor head might have bobbled off.

He gestured toward the tray, with its generous portions of flatbread, cheese, olives, dried figs, and a leg of the previous evening’s duck. The boy — _Dean_ , he corrected himself— dove at the food with a gracelessness that took him aback. He took the bird in one hand and bit off a mouthful. With the other, he seized the whole round of bread and a hunk of cheese and crammed them into his cheeks. The poor thing was obviously starved.

Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s. “Slow down,” he said, using his gentlest alpha voice, “or you’ll be sick.”

The boy threw him back a look that could wither grapes on the vine.

Castiel took the bread and cheese from his hand —the feral snarl on Dean’s lips said he dare not touch the bird— and tore it in half, leaving the other portion on the plate in front of him. “If you eat too quickly” — Castiel lifted his hand repeatedly from the plate to his mouth— “you will be sick.” He demonstrated with a jerk of his head and a crude spewing gesture. 

Dean picked up his smaller portion and raised it to his mouth, chewing with a deliberate slowness bordering on mockery. He bit a piece off the bird but didn’t bother to wipe or even lick the grease from his lips, eyes trained on the alpha all the while.

A little bowl of dried figs sat untouched on the tray. Castiel took a single finger and slid it in Dean’s direction in a slow, deliberate movement.

The boy took one as soon as he had empty fingers, and moaned a little over the flavor. He even let his eyes slip closed for a moment, and Castiel smiled. He might still buy a little peace and trust with food, though the issue of where he was to sleep was unsettled.

Making a slave sleep outside one’s door was a disgraceful practice- one he’d always detested. He couldn’t leave the boy with no shelter from Zachariah’s advances. And their alliance wouldn’t be improved at all by forcing Dean to sleep on the floor; his wounds forbade it. There was still the couch… No, he’d almost certainly have to have the bed. 

Then there was the issue of how to address the senator’s prying questions. A quick hand-wave would dismiss any prurient inquiries, but if the boy didn’t bear his scent, or if they were caught not abed together…

Castiel’s reverie broke when Dean let out a mighty yawn. He came to his senses to see that Dean had left little of the meal besides bones and olives. His limbs, his eyelids were all heavy with satiety, and he seemed to simply keel over onto the bed. 

The scent of his bedding would be enough of a mark for now.

He pulled up one of the many furs and mantled it across his shoulders. Dean looked younger still, if that were possible, burrowed into the covers. The lines on his brow went soft. And before Castiel could see reason, his hand went to stroke the boy’s hair.

One green eye flew open, and he stayed his hand. It hung in the air between them like a question until, with a sigh, Dean relaxed and let his eyes slip closed once more.

Castiel treated this like the gift it was and no less. He stroked Dean’s sandy hair, dragging his thumb across his temple. His cheek. What this poor, dear thing must have been through to welcome the touch of a strange alpha. It might have been the only benevolent touch he’d known in months.

Guilt and pathos burned hot in his chest. He resolved then to protect this boy —this _Dean_ — as best he could. He know not how, nor what form this protection might take in the coming days. Or weeks.

But for tonight, at least, it meant reclaiming one fur from his bed to keep his couch warm. 

## 

λ ᚷ

Dean’s courage faded as he was made to wait.

The room had many comforts: a soft bed with smooth linens and thick furs, comfortable chairs, a sturdy table… Yet he possessed not one knife. Not some bit of pottery to smash into a sharp, tearing edge. He could not work a finger into the elaborate braid that bound his forearms, nor reach the knot with his teeth. His upper arms were almost on fire with pain.

He sat on the bed now, knees apart, bent nearly double, trying to catch some of the fabric underneath his tongue and wet it until it could be chewed apart. In his heart he knew that it was fruitless; that it would take more hours than he had to produce the slightest tear. But if he didn’t, his idle brain would concoct terrors and fantasies of what awaited him when the owner of this bed returned. The ache in his back kept him sharp. 

Not the bald man. Anyone but the bald man.

The door opened with a creak, and flew open with enough force to make him jump. Blue Eyes entered with a guard to his front and rear— one of the twins from earlier, and another with a battle scar across his bearded face.

The guards studied the room, checking for traps or weapons. Blue Eyes only stared at him, waiting for him to buckle under his authority. The stud was smart —a warrior’s mind, no doubt— but gave him entirely too much credit. He could barely scratch his nose in these bindings.

The guards presumably pronounced the room safe, for the stud answered them in their pitter-patter language before calling over his shoulder like a hound master.

At his word, a boy breeder of about his own age entered, carrying an enormous tray absolutely heaped with food. He spotted half a bird, and the almost-forgotten smell of warm bread made his mouth water. It was all set down on the heavy table beside the bed, torturously out of reach.

Dean barely regarded the stud as he commanded his guards once more. Then, with a bow of their heads, they turned and left, taking all the air in the room with them as they closed the door. 

His stomach churned with both hunger and fear- was he to be fed before or after Blue Eyes had his way with him? The stud’s scent was calm but his gaze was heavy. And when he sat down beside him on the bed, Dean’s fate was all but sealed. 

The stud placed Dean’s bound hands together into his lap —at a chaste distance, Dean noted— and began to loosen the braid. He cursed and mumbled as he picked at the fabric, possibly angered by the time it was taking to get it off.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat- once his arms were free, he was one step closer to escape. Could the the silver tray become a weapon, or a shield? Could he wrestle the cloth from Blue Eyes and wrap it around his throat? But to what end? How far could he run unbound but unarmed?

The last of the cloth fell away and Blue Eyes wrapped it quickly around his hand before tying it off. Dean’s heart sank into his stomach, heavy as stone. There would be no diving for it, no wresting it away.

There were practically acres between himself and the door, but only an arm’s length between himself and the man and the wall. He would have to pick his battles. The best hope for escape might have been not to fight at all.

Dean swallowed hard, chancing a look into the invader’s face. He seemed calm, almost curious, like Dean was some puzzle whose shape was not yet clear; some jest whose meaning fell flat. Dean rolled onto his arms —ignoring the needle-like sting in them— and crawled to the center of the bed, baring his backside in surrender. 

With the stud spent and asleep, he could find a way. Blue Eyes might even be gentle.

“No.”

Dean turned towards the sound. He certainly smelled lustful, but his face was all disapproval. 

“No,” the stud said again, shaking his head as he draped the clothing back over him.

Dean released a breath he did not know he was holding. There was relief, yes, but also… disappointment? Did the stud not _want_ to claim him? Panic struck: if Blue Eyes did not want him, would he be given to the Zachariah? The bald man’s hungry looks made his skin crawl.

The rough bathing, the prodding, the sleeplessness and numbness in his arms…it was all for nothing? The dam of his tears broke. All the pain and confusion and terror he had been holding back for hours upon hours simply rushed out in a blink.

He was angry at the gods for his lot. Angry at himself for mistaking overconfidence for bravery; for breaking down in front of this invader. But he could not stop wailing like a pup.

What would he give to be in his own cozy stone house, full of the assuring scents of his father and brother? With his own warm clothes and furs, roasting a hare over their fire? For a moment he wondered about the strip of cloth. Would the gods give him even a taste of that comfort if he tied it around his _own_ neck?

Dean felt the stud’s hands at his shoulders, picking at the pins that held the garment together, and he sucked in a gasp. Had he changed his mind? (Was he one of those sick, sick men that found arousal in another’s pain?) This breath Dean held for certain.

The cloth came away from his back, finding resistance along the trail of the gashes. He hissed at the tug on his tender flesh. They must still weep, Dean thought; the scalding bath must have done him more harm than good.

Blue Eyes’ weight upon the bed shifted, and he reached onto the heaped plate for something. The sudden press of two fingers against his wounds made him hiss, but caused no further pains in their wake. And despite the flare-up of smoky peat in the stud’s scent, he was surprisingly gentle. 

To Dean’s surprise, he padded along the length of Dean’s lashes with honey; by the time the last of his reserve tears had rolled down his nose, the stud had coated his wounds in a sweet-smelling oil, rubbing it into the edges and taking care not to mix the two. (Was Blue Eyes a healer? A wise man? Or was he merely a soldier? Every warrior of his clan knew to smear honey on a deep wound…)

He tilted Dean’s chin with his clean hand, directing their eyes to meet, and said four words in a soft tone. The stud still wore that look of curiosity, but with it seemed a pleading sort of hope. He made a little gesture with his two open hands- one that Dean took to mean that he should sit up.

He did so slowly, minding the short length of the garment as well as the sticky mess across his back. The fabric fell to his waist, exposing him to the stud. Before he could move to cover himself, though, Blue Eyes seized each end and tied it behind Dean’s neck, securing it with the same pins.

Dean placed a hand at the back of his neck. His back was now free, and sitting straight no longer felt like his skin would split open.

Blue Eyes placed a hand on his own chest, and said some words very slowly. One he repeated twice. “Cas-tee-el.” He pointed to Dean, and the openness in his face said that it must have been a question.

_Castiel._ The bald man had called him that. Zachariah was the bald man’s name, not his title. “Castiel,” the stud repeated before pointing at Dean once more

Dean found himself pressing a hand to his own chest. Was this some invader custom? Could they not shake hands when they exchanged names? “Dean.”

Blue Eyes — _Castiel_ — smiled a little, and _oh_ he was handsome when he did. Dean almost had to avert his eyes. He could not call this invader kind nor handsome. He would not be lulled. 

Castiel spoke more words, accompanied by a patting of his stomach and the raising of his hand to his mouth. Dean’s mouth watered in an instant, and he nodded. Food! And more of it than he’d seen in one place since he’d left home.

He launched himself at the meat —duck, goose, pigeon…he cared not— and crammed it into his mouth with what he recognized by smell as bread and cheese. Never mind that it was their clan’s own stolen wheat; in that moment, it was the food of the gods.

Castiel stayed his hand and Dean glared daggers at him. He almost pushed Castiel over when he dared touch his food. But Castiel took the handful of bread and cheese gripped in Dean’s first three fingers and tore the portion in half. He spoke more words at Dean, accompanied by a gesture that could not be misinterpreted: he would be sick if he ate too fast.

Dean raised one hand to his mouth and ate slowly. He didn’t doubt that he looked like one of their clan’s hounds hunched over a bone. But the invader was smart enough to let him alone to have his fill. Castiel even nudged a strange dried fruit in his direction, and smiled as Dean moaned over the sweetness on his tongue. 

He ate until his belly was full; until there was nothing left to the tray but half the bread, those bitter green things, and the remainder of the little bowl of honey. Dean almost felt guilty until he remembered that Castiel was of some high rank or another, and could have it refilled any time he liked.

And if Dean had had the words he might have asked for more, but his eyelids were already drooping. His guts burbled happily as he digested the first real meal he’d had in months. And to his dismay, he slowly succumbed to the warm welcome of the soft bed, yawning and stretching out languidly as he could not in any other cage. 

It _was_ a cage, this great painted house; he had no doubt of that. But in that moment, it seemed, he was safe. Warm.

Castiel’s weight dipped the edge of the bed and Dean’s eyes snapped open, his wolf-mind on high alert. He saw Castiel’s hand hovering above his head, stopped mid-air. But something about the stud’s scent was soothing, and that same wolf-mind let him close his eyes. 

And, gods help him, he leaned into that touch like some faithful hound. He felt a twinge of shame as he drifted into sleep- that he should welcome some invader’s hand. But the concern bare in those eyes, the absolute tenderness with which he continued to stroke Dean’s hair, was the closest thing to a kindness he’d felt in months. 

He burrowed into the furs, into that clean, woodsy smell; like a warm spring day back home.

Castiel could live, Dean thought as he drifted off, so long as he did not impede his escape. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Dean believes that granting dubious consent to Castiel will help him escape later; he surrenders to what he believes will be a sexual encounter. (It is not.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I’m sorry that this took so long. Chapter 3 became Chapter 3 and 4 by necessity, and Chapter 4 was the one that was over halfway written. (Also I got some new meds a couple weeks ago and I had to adjust to those, so I was in no headspace to write. Again, sorry.) I hope the Deansturbation makes up for it.

Morning crept up upon Castiel earlier than usual. He shivered into being at the first ray of sun, and the stiffness in his back was as demanding as a rooster’s crow. (Was he so old now that a cushion of wool-wrapped straw was too stiff? He who had slept in the dirt, or collapsed in a heap of dewy grass?) His knees grumbled at him too, for curling up on the couch as he did.

He turned under his fur blanket to face the room, only to be shocked awake by a view of the boy. Dean sat cross-legged in Castiel’s bed, poring over his sleeping form with an addled, inquisitive sort of look on his face— one that descended into his lap the instant their eyes met.

Succumbing to sleep was no longer an option.

Castiel sat up with a grimace and a stretch, and adjusted his rucked-up tunic to its rightful place. He managed a polite smile. “Did you sleep well?” he asked before almost immediately reproving himself. How was he supposed to communicate that? Maybe pillowing his head against his hands? Perhaps…?

He groaned and buried his face in his palm. It was far too early for pantomime.

“Are you hungry?” he asked again, rubbing his stomach.

The boy glanced up for a moment, shook his head ‘No’, and turned his gaze back to his lap.

Just as well. By the light of the day, he imagined the cooks were just stoking their fires; a hot breakfast might not be ready as of yet. He surveyed the room for his shoes, and, finding them at the foot of his own bed, rose with a creak and shuffled across the floor before dropping ungracefully onto the mattress.

Dean’s entire body tensed at his mere proximity; Castiel tried to keep this disappointment from creeping onto his face or into his scent. (If Dean hadn’t yet presented, could he even read his scent?) He turned his attention to the laces of his _calcei_.

“I’ll speak with Hester or Naomi and see if I can’t get you some better clothes.” He spoke more to his feet than to Dean. “Something you can be seen in, at least. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you."

With both shod feet on the floor, he peered over at the boy next to him. Still he stared at the fur as if counting every hair on the hide.

What was to be done with him? Should they dress him in Castiel’s livery and make him a cupbearer? Could he be tamed into barbering or tailoring? Gods, what even would they do with him _today_? Lock him in this room again until he clawed at the walls? Until he _actually_ smashed the furniture to pieces and improvised a weapon? Or should he simply lash Dean to the bed as expected and hope that he could be made to understand?

Castiel heaved a great sigh. The upcoming festival, Michael’s heavy demands, and now this boy…it was all too much. (A part of his mind pondered if that might have been the senator’s aim all along. But why?)

The issue of Zachariah could be neglected no longer. Was he bold enough to force himself on Dean? There seemed only one way to assure his safety.

“Dean?”

He was still as any statue in the peristyle.

“Dean…” He cupped the boy’s chin, tilting it his way. Only a second of recognition passed across his face before he turned away. Castiel caught it again. Now, finally, Dean conceded.

“I know you can’t understand a word,” he began, “but I want you to look at me while I say it. I am going to scent-mark you. I know not if you have lover or a companion, or even a betrothed amongst your clan. If so, I hope both of you may forgive my intrusions someday. But as long as you bear my scent, you’ll have my protection.”

He let Dean go, and Dean did not turn away.

Castiel picked up the arm closest to him. With one hand in his and the other at the crook of the boy’s elbow, he turned the boy’s wrist up and rubbed it across his own scent gland; once, then twice for certainty before letting go.

A wrist was not a good as the neck, but it would do.

Dean appeared dazed as they drifted apart. Perhaps he was confused. But what could be done? Might exuding calm through his scent be some help? (If he was unpresented, could he even smell it?)

“Zachariah dares not touch you now,” he said. “If he will not respect humanity then he will respect property. And should I see Inias,” he added, nearly spitting, “he will know my displeasure.”

The boy was still all slack-jawed incomprehension.

Castiel exhaled another long breath. Not a word of this monologue helped Dean in the slightest. At least he had granted him some aegis from the senator.

“I’ll go get us some breakfast,” he said with a weak smile. “That at least will be useful.”

He patted Dean’s knee before standing —with yet another creak— and making his way towards the kitchens.

## 

λ ᚷ

Dean stood speechless, staring at nothing. His mind, however, was racing in a thousand directions like a herd of spooked oxen.

He’d just been scent-marked, but Castiel had made no move to claim him. He’d even slept in another, slimmer bed far across the room. He’d spoken the name Zachariah but Dean understood not a word otherwise. And Castiel seemed so, so sad.

Dean kicked his legs, gathered his hair in handfuls. This wasn’t supposed to be!

He’d woken up hard, as a young man was wont to do. But, to his shame, he’d also found himself rutting against a warm fold of fur. The heat, the movement, the smoothness of the pelt…it was all enough to caress his cock just so. Most embarrassing of all, he didn’t imagine any of his clan whom he had met secretly under moonlight; no doe-eyed girls or smirking boys to explore as much as could be explored without mating. His sleeping brain had instead supplied Castiel, with Dean’s cock disappearing into that full, pink mouth. He’d nearly spilled before the shock of it snapped him awake.

Dean could barely look at the man after that. And he dare not touch himself with the stud so near. So he waited, willing his traitorous cock to go down. It was still half-hard when Castiel woke up.

The adults of the clan spoke of their ‘inner wolf’: the thing that drove them to mate, to fight, and to protect their own. That primal spirit that often warred against their better nature. It would grow stronger as he aged, they told him, and soon he might find himself driven to heat or rut. Its call was strong, they told him, and would only grow louder and more fierce if left unfed. Dean knew now it was at his door.

Dean let out a long breath, which he then recovered with a deep inhale. His cock twitched under his clothes. The smell of Castiel was everywhere; his skin, the blankets. The very air.

Again he castigated himself: this was not supposed to be! He should have spent every free breath finding that fabric or braiding the bedclothes, sneaking forward to choke the breath from the invader while he slept. He should have ran until he could run no more. Instead he stared at the stud’s thick thighs and half-begged the gods that he would toss once more in his sleep and reveal still more flesh.

He was twice Dean’s age! Easily!

But no one he’d ever met had smelled so good, nor appealed to that sense so strongly above all others.

He found himself prostrate on the bed in a pheromone haze. Castiel’s pillow smelled faintly of their scents together, sharp and heady.

The knotted fabric at his neck came undone with one easy motion. He skimmed it down his body, pooling it a little above his waist. 

Dean took himself in hand, sighing with relief at the first tug. His free hand pinched one nipple and then the other, stoking the fire in his core. 

Castiel might come back, his practical mind warned, and find him in this state; but would that be so bad? He was twice his age, yes…but age did have its advantages.

If he were to…to _know_ Castiel and they were not mated, who would find out? He was no longer under the watchful eye of his father or of the clan. And if he were to come home without a scent-bond or a mating bite, then it would be assumed that his time was spent fighting the invaders instead of warming one’s bed. And if he did? He was but a helpless prisoner at the mercy of a cruel stud.

His fist tightened as he thought of Lisa, with her tanned skin and talented tongue and large, dark, gold-rimmed eyes; the impressive length of Benny’s stud cock as they stroked each other on a hunting trip under a shared tent. How would Castiel’s tongue compare? Did Castiel hang low and thick as Benny, and drip so freely?

He brought two fingers to his lips and sucked on their ends until they were wet; he then spread his legs so that he might tease himself. How good would it feel if it were someone else’s fingers? _Castiel’s_ fingers? (Did studs long to be filled, he wondered between strokes, or only breeders? Did they long to know the touches and scents and tastes of other men? Would one ever admit to presenting to a lover?)

Dean’s spit-slick fingertips found his hole, and swirled them around in tight circles. Where was that oil that Castiel had rubbed on his wounds? He could coat his fingers in it and find the spot Ash had shown him- the one that made him see stars behind his eyelids?

Castiel knew how to find that spot, he bet.

His hand moved faster, need coiling tight in his belly, his shame now forgotten. Then, if only to affirm this shamelessness to himself, he eased a still-slick fingertip past the first ring of muscle. The resulting groan was profane in his own ears, but was so utterly satisfying. His head lolled to the side; into the mattress, into the pine-and-peat-and-now-juniper concentrated scent.

Yes, if Castiel were to return now, would he take him in hand? He would. Castiel would press him into the bedding, rub that scent over his neck and mark him anew. The stud would anoint his fingers, find that place inside him. Oh yes. Then, after he’d made Dean swoon, he’d slide his cock inside, breaching him for the first time. He’d be so good, moving in long, smooth strokes while his hand matched the rhythm. 

That was how Dean came, spurting in an arc across his chest and over his hand. He pulled until he shook; until the lightning jolts of pleasurable pain made him draw his finger away. It was all satisfying to be sure, but somehow still left him feeling empty- and even more eager for the real thing.

Spunk cooled on his chest as he laid indulgently on the bed, taking up space, inhaling that scent. Sumptuous pillows, smooth furs, and cloth spun fine and supple. His eyes fluttered shut, finding the sleep that had avoided him. 

He dreamt, it seemed, of better times. The sun was bright, the air was thick with evergreen, and in his ears was a tune he remembered from long, long ago, sung by his mother in a low and sweet tone.

But was only a dream, after all: the ragged edges of his wounds snagged each fiber of the bedding, bringing on a low but inescapable itch to accompany the ache. Why had he been foolish enough to sleep on his back anyway?

He groaned. Oh. Yes. That.

But the song…the song continued as the veil of sleep fell from his eyes. 

Dean sat up sharply, though the gash in his back and the dried crust of spunk on his chest slowed his curiosity. Taking both sides of the garment —still cursedly short— he tied the ends of each over his shoulder. Then, once on his feet, he practically bounded from the bed to the door, and heaved it open with such force that it hit the painted wall.

He turned a hunter’s ear to the voice. Yes, it was real- and louder now, echoing over the stone. Coming from the left. A few cautious steps were taken- there may have been guards. Whomever the voice belonged to, they weren’t moving any. 

He peered around a column to see a girl, slim and pale, with red hair skimming her shoulders. She worked half-hunched over a garment- a long, feminine dress that whose edges she was finishing in bright gold thread.

Another step and he could see the pattern: leaves and flowers, and the head of a ram. He knew those patterns! He had seen them at the market, and on those he had stood by in battle. 

“Parisi!” he uttered, before clamping both hands over his mouth. Dean glanced quickly to his left and then his right, sure the guards would be upon him immediately. Instead, all he saw was a flip of a red mane and a pair of hazel eyes.

The girl was his own age or a bit older, and seemed paler still with surprise.

“You…” she sputtered. “You’re Parisi?”

“Briganti.” Dean blinked twice through his confusion. Had he truly heard his mother tongue? “But you understand me?”

She shook her head ‘yes’.

“Oh thank the gods!” His head tipped back in relief. “You have to get me out of here. They have me serving as some stud’s bed-slave and I don’t know how soon it’ll be until he returns. Please.”

She set the garment down with pert care, her eyes narrowing cannily. “You’re Castiel’s new servant, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Castiel. With the blue eyes and the dark hair. You have to help me. _Please._ ”

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

She peered over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out here, Dean.” She took his arm, leading him back into Castiel’s quarters. “Come, let me take you back to your master’s chambers. I’m sure he’ll be back very soon.”

“Please. _Please_ , you have to help me. I can’t stay—” Her nails dug deep into the meat of his elbow, and he was silent.

She marched him stiffly inside, her hand just above the dip of his spine- half helpful, half insistent. The little redhead then closed the door behind them, punctuating his half-finished plea.

Once inside, however, her calm countenance fell; she was years younger now, wide-eyed and open-mouthed once again. She practically shoved him onto the nearby bench and began the disquisition.

“Are you truly Briganti?”

“Yes. From the forests, between the river and the great mountains.”

She tugged at his arm urgently, staring as his tattoo was revealed. “You _are_ a chieftan’s son. And they say you’re unpresented?”

Dean jerked it back. “Yes, it’s true. All of it. Now can you help me?”

She shook her head. “Naomi has a hundred eyes on this villa at any time. Nothing happens without her knowing.”

“Who is Naomi?” he almost snarled. “ And for that matter, who are you?”

“My name is—” she began, before squelching the name behind a bitten lip. “You can call me Charlie. I belong to Anna.”

Dean huffed in annoyance. “And who is Anna?”

“Castiel’s sister. She’s my alpha. My stud, as you say.”

Dean’s face was a chorus; an amphitheater’s worth of masks passing from disgust to distress to broken resignation, at which point he scrubbed both hands down his face. Round and round, all facts but no answers— it was maddening.

“All right, _Charlie_ \- who is Naomi, and why should I care?”

“She’s the _maior domūs_ \- she oversees every slave, and holds the key to every door in the villa. The guards fear her more than their commander.”

“Then get me a sword, an axe- anything! I’ll cut down this Naomi on my way out as a gift to you. You can escape with me, if you like.”

Charlie scoffed. “Then what? Run armed, bloody, and half-naked into a courtyard full of soldiers? You’ll be killed.”

Dean’s mouth shut with a snap.

“No, that won’t do at all,” she continued, “your best bet is to wait a few days until the Parilia and sneak out while it’s dark.”

“The what?”

“The feast of Pares, the shepherd god. Or goddess,” she added with a fleeting grin. “An excuse for them to get drunk. ”

“Better still! Is there hemlock, or deadly nightshade? Crush a handful of leaves into the barrel and—”

“DEAN.” For such a small thing, she had a big bark. “I don’t think you understand…I don’t _want_ to leave. And I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“How?! How do you as Parisi not want to separate every single one of their heads from their shoulders? How can you let yourself be taken in by these invaders??”

“As an omega, I couldn’t wish for more.” She seemed distant for a heartbeat or two, as if she were somewhere far away. “In my clan —as no one of name— I would be forced to breed. And female alphas are as rare as roses in winter.” She cast a searching gaze at Dean, a silent plea for understanding.

Dean swallowed hard. Nodded. They hadn’t suffered quite the losses that the Parisi had; his clan still had the luxury of courting and selecting a mate, breeding pair or no.

“Here I have a good mate. She taught me my numbers and letters. She asks questions, she shares news and gossip, and we learn from each other. I’m more to her than a maid or a bed slave, no matter what Naomi believes.”

That struck him silent. The Parisi were a cunning, impassive people- territorial almost to a fault, and not easily swayed by gold or trinkets from the invaders. That one should feel such a strong bond to a foreign stud — _alpha_ , he corrected himself— was a either testament to the state of the Parisi or the kindliness of her mate. 

Her mate that happened to be Castiel’s sister.

No matter whom she was mated to, the truth of it was that Charlie may be his only ally. And to have someone to speak to? That was worth more than gold.

They shared a look of understanding, there on either end of their bench, and shared a smile.

“I said I wouldn’t want to kill anyone,” she offered lightly, “but I wouldn’t weep if Zachariah were eaten by a bear.”

A tremor went up his spine. “Ugh. I hate that man.”

“Everyone hates that man.”

“Then why” — he threw his hands up— “ _why_ is he here? Castiel’s a stud of high rank, isn’t he?”

Charlie nodded, smirking ever-so-lightly.

“Then why does he not send Zachariah away? Castiel looks down at him like piss on his boot.”

“Because Zachariah is a favorite of Emperor Michael,” she stated simply, “and the emperor can not leave his younger brother and sister alone to divert power. Their brother Raphael’s influence is already too great in Gaul. ”

Dean’s brow furrowed into a deep ‘V’.

“More eyes and ears,” she said sagely. “Michael values loyalty. Above all else, sometimes.”

He buried his face in his hands. It couldn’t be... _He_ couldn’t be...

“Castiel is the emperor’s brother?”

Her smirk had split into a grin. “And his procurator for the province. _Equites Augustus_ Castiel. He collects taxes, pays soldiers… Anna tells me he was a great warrior once, when he was young.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. This morning, drunk on scent, he’d dreamed of spreading his legs for the emperor’s brother. A so-called “great warrior” who had fought for the invaders. Was it on these shores? Had Castiel spilled the blood of Charlie’s kin? Of his own? No. No, this could not be. 

“No,” he muttered. “No no no.”

There was a long moment of silence before he felt Charlie’s leg brush against his. She put an arm around his shoulder and a soothing hand on his knee, giving him a comforting squeeze. Dean leaned his shoulder into it, their heads resting together.

“You smell like him,” Charlie entreated with a sniff. “Has he…?”

Dean peered from between his fingers. “He scent-marked me. He said something about Zachariah and he scent-marked me. Then he left.” He turned his palms up. “I don’t know what it means, or what he intends to do to me…Charlie, you have to help me.”

“I will. As much as I can. But Dean…” She sighed. “I know this is hard to hear, especially from a fellow Brittani, but… your Castiel is a good man.”

He turned away with a snort.

“I swear it’s true. He’s as kind to me as he is to his own sister. And he’s never had a bed slave- not once since I have come.”

A frown dug dimples into his cheeks. “I’m the first, eh? How fortunate for me.”

“I know you won’t believe me now, but if you—”

The door opened and Charlie sounded a startled little yelp. Dean immediately shielded Charlie with his body, a low growl escaping from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, even in a quasi-historical AU, Cas is an accountant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay.
> 
> Apologies for the delay. The combination of GISH + med adjustment + personal family drama + *gestures broadly at everything* = me taking way longer than I should have to finish a chapter that was 75% done when I posted the last one. (Also: 72 subscriptions! Holy crap! I've never done a serial posting before so it seems like a million to me. :D ) 
> 
> I hope this gives y'all a little respite from everything. (Rest up, hydrate, practice some self-care, then back to the fight. <3)

A deep, wolfish growl greeted Castiel as he opened the door, and for half a heartbeat he felt his inner alpha growl back. Who was in his apartments? Who was touching his—

“Castiel!” 

Charlie stepped out from behind Dean, whose face contorted from ferocity to confusion in a heartbeat.

He blew out a huff of relief. “Charlie? Dean? What’s happening here?”

“I apologize for entering uninvited, sir. I swear I meant no harm. Only I was in the atrium finishing Anna’s hems when Dean heard my singing. It’s a song of his clan, too!”

So great was Castiel’s surprise he could even smell it upon himself. “Does… Does that mean you speak his language?”

“With all due respect, excellency, I speak _my_ language. His clan is of the middle-west; mine is of the upper-east. However, the languages _are_ quite similar.”

Castiel nodded. “Will you speak with him for me?”

Her head dipped in curtsey. “Of course, your excellency, if he’ll speak.”

“Charlie, you’re my sister’s mate. We need no titles in private.”

Something like a smile turned Charlie’s lips, and she returned to her seat with her chin a little higher. She bid Dean sit on her right side so that she sat between them. The two of them exchanged a few quick words before she faced Castiel again. “What would you like to know?”

“Gods…” Castiel exhaled. Was Dean scared? Did he know that he meant Dean no harm? Could he begin to forgive him for the scent marking? “How did he come here?” he said finally.

Charlie faced Dean, speaking to him clearly and deliberately in their blunt indigenous tongue. After a short silence, he replied.

“He stole a horse,” Charlie said simply. Dean muttered a little more. “He believes they tried to ransom him, but couldn’t find his father- their chief. Then they marched him south and sold him to someone called either Fergus or Crowley.”

“Crowley.” Castiel growled at the name.

“It seems he was taken from Crowley as tribute,” Charlie finished.

“By whom?”

Charlie repeated the question. The answer was unmistakable.

“Zachariah,” Dean said.

“Did he take others?”

Dean spoke.

“No one he knew.” She shook her head sadly. “He learned no names. They were whipped if they tried to speak.”

A snarl tugged at Castiel’s lip. “Did Zachariah do that to him? Those lacerations on his back?”

After a few words, Charlie shook her head again. “There were so many beatings that no one person could be blamed. He doesn’t know whose whips made them and whose whips opened them again.”

Castiel sighed. This poor, beautiful boy…

“How old is he?”

Dean rumbled out a few words.

“He says he’s seen sixteen springs.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide. “Sixteen!? Why…he’s so thin, I thought he was fourteen at most!” he sputtered. “And how has a boy of sixteen not presented yet!?”

He looked to Charlie for the translation and found her expression hard and cold. She averted her eyes after a moment, and seemed to be chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Charlie?”

“He’s not _thin_ , excellency.” A sour, baked-grass scent was roiling off of her. “He’s _malnourished_. Your brother’s army— _your_ army—has been taking his clan’s grain, and their herds, and their land.” He noticed her little body was shaking. “He has not _presented_ because his body won’t let him. Not in a time of war and famine.”

 _That’s not what the physicians would say_ , he thought. In a time of war, alphas should present faster- that young, boundless, natural aggression simply _itched_ to be spent in battle. Every general worth his salt knew it was best to have an army heavily comprised of betas; they ate less than alphas —stank less too— and weren’t prone to fighting for rank. That general would also know that a well-armed company of young alphas could fight, fuck, and pillage a city into the ground.

On the other hand, Castiel thought, were Dean truly an omega, he’d need a little more meat on his bones before his first heat. It was evident he was too thin to carry pups. (He allowed himself to imagine Dean round with _his_ pup, and blinked hard to banish the sight.) 

Dean half-whispered his question, and Charlie growled a reply.

Whatever she said brought Dean to his feet in an angry tirade; one that left his face red and his scent acid-sharp until the very last word.

“What did he say?”

“Much the same as I did,” Charlie replied stonily, “though nowhere near as politely.”

Castiel nodded, his eyes slowly falling at his own feet. Had he so forgotten his own battles, his own scars? Had he been so numbed to this war that lives were nothing but ink and numbers and lines on paper?

He found his hand pressed protectively at his belly, and folded it with the other into his lap. “What can I do?”

After an exchange of bitter mumbling, she replied with “He says you can let him go.”

It was not an unreasonable request. The boy —the _young man_ — didn’t want to be there, nor did he himself want the job of steering Dean away from Zachariah’s advances. He stroked his chin pensively. _If he leaves now, he’ll be branded a runaway…_ And if he was taken in by a slaver worse than Crowley, some savage or whoremaster…

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t. Not now.”

Charlie began to repeat the words, to Dean’s indignation.

“I wasn’t finished!” he barked, startling the two servants into duteous silence. Now, with their eyes on him, he began again. “If I let you go now, you’ll be branded as a runaway.” Charlie spoke as he spoke, only a few words behind. “The first penalty for running away is the loss of your toes and a brand on your forehead, so if there is a second time, you lose your feet entirely. Some might not even make it that far- some might be put to death straight away.” He raised an eyebrow at Dean. “But you, young and handsome as you are, might not be made ugly even without feet or toes. Do you understand?”

“And you would do these things, Castiel?” Charlie frowned, her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“We do not brand our servants here, Charlie, as you know,” he countered. “If he were to run away unbranded, he could end up captured and sold to anyone.” Castiel hummed thoughtfully. “Dean could, if he chose, bear my mark and have leave to escape. But he must face the same consequences as any other slave. Our authority must be absolute.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but it died on her lips.

“And besides,” he added softly, “they already believe he’s chained to my bed. Any hesitance to take his toes or feet would be suspicious.” Castiel sighed. “No, the safest way for him to escape is to join the legion.”

“What??”

Dean swatted Charlie’s shoulder, and she fumbled out a quick translation. The two servants wore matching expressions as the alpha spoke on.

“We train new troops every day. Shiploads of recruits from the motherland, tributes of men from local chieftains… if we can train Dean as a foot soldier, he could leave the city under the auspices of a mission. We send company after company to battle in the north- he would be have food and a tent, and would to all appearances be a loyal soldier. That is, until the night he escapes.”

The change in Charlie’s scent was instantaneous as she prattled to Dean; the sun seemed to shine again in her countenance, her expression light with excitement. Even Dean’s heavy brow grew lighter as they spoke.

“Better still,” Castiel thought aloud, “if he were to play at being my bodyguard, he could leave at my next consulate journey. His presence would eliminate the need for two men at least.”

Dean’s enthusiasm seemed to match hers.

“He’s excited about the plan, and is ready to begin right away.”

Castiel raised a hand. “Patience. He’s not ready yet. He’ll need time for the wounds on his back to heal before he tears them open again or gets knocked down into the dirt.”

“How long will that be?” Charlie supplied.

“Weeks, perhaps. Until Inias says you are healed. And well enough- the next trip won’t be until the rains taper off. Perhaps even until the solstice.” He muttered out loud. “I don’t believe Dean knows the language well enough to take instruction yet…”

Dean scoffed. Loudly.

“He says he doesn’t trust Inias. And for myself, I can hardly blame him.”

“Inias has been given the proper censure,” Castiel countered. “He said that he was merely inspecting a bed slave, though that’s hardly an excuse. If I inform him Dean must be fit for guard training, he’ll receive the best of care. Or else.”

The answer didn’t please Charlie, but she repeated it all the same.

“The only obstacle, it seems, is that Dean does not understand Enochian. And he will need to in order to receive arms training.” This was true, of course, but he couldn’t deny the added benefit of finally being able to speak to him.

Charlie translated quickly, and Dean spat out what was clearly an insult. A brief exchange passed between them. Then, slowly, Dean began to nod his head in understanding. He addressed the next question to Castiel.

“What’s going to happen in the meantime?”

“That depends. Charlie, if you would be amenable to giving Dean lessons, I could make sure there are no other duties to stand in your way.” Castiel smiled conspiratorially. “And I could arrange for more time in the library than is _strictly_ needed for Dean’s education.”

Charlie grinned brightly, and Castiel knew he had an accord.

“So we understand each other?”

“Yes, Excellency. _Castiel_.”

His heart felt light for the first time in days.

Castiel rose to his feet, followed by Charlie half a blink later. “I’ll grant you both some tablets from my personal store, and you can begin as soon as you please. I’ll also let Naomi know that you’re not to be disturbed while you lecture.”

He turned on his heel to exit before adding “And should anyone question you, send them directly to me. Understood?”

Charlie’s head bobbed enthusiastically.

“Good,” he nodded. “Samandriel is coming with breakfast. I’ll bring you some supplies and you can begin as soon as you’d like.”

Charlie was still chattering excitedly to Dean as Castiel closed his door.  


## 

λ ᚷ

It took a long moment before Dean’s hackles began to fall. He had expected a guard to burst in and accuse them of plotting, whips in hand; or worse, for Zachariah to have come slithering in looking for him and finding Charlie as well.

Thankfully Castiel seemed not the least put out by her presence. Of course not, he thought to himself, they were family. And Charlie had the words to explain herself. If her mate spoke Enochian, so must she.

The two of them spoke not as master and servant, though certainly not as equals. But Castiel did seem to hold himself differently towards Charlie than he did the guards or the tray-bearer. (A small part of him felt cozened- maybe the alpha had shown him no particular affection after all.)

She sat back down upon the bench, patting the space he’d occupied.

Warily, Dean accepted.

“Castiel would like to speak with you.”

“What does he want to know?”

The alpha seemed flush—almost nervous—as he released a long breath before replying to Charlie. 

“He wants to know how you came to be here,” she said.

Dean swallowed. Where to begin? The soldiers that marched onto their lands demanding food at spearpoint? The invaders stealing their horses? Their breeders? The way they snuck into the invaders’ camps in the dead of night to reclaim both? Or simply the battle that separated him from his only brother, by fault of Castiel’s own sibling? 

He bit back his impudence- it would not serve now. “I was caught stealing a horse.”

Charlie spoke to Castiel.

“I stole a horse and was captured,” Dean continued. “I was taken by soldiers who — I think— meant to sell me back to my father for ransom. I thought they would kill me, but they marched me south and sold me to a man called Fergus, or Crowley.” He shook his head. “Then he said something about a ‘tribute’, and I was brought here.”

“Who by?” Charlie asked.

“Zachariah.”

“Did he take anyone else you know?”

“No.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “We were housed in separate cells, and were only together for the wagon ride. We were whipped if we even tried to speak.”

Castiel spoke angrily, his scent taking on harsh, burnt notes.

“Did he give you the marks on your back?” Charlie translated calmly.

Dean’s gaze fell to his feet, and he was silent. “No. There were so many lashes that I can’t say whose was the first, or whose kept them open.” Bitterly, he added “Your soldiers seemed very fond of giving them.”

Castiel sighed, murmuring his next question.

“He wants to know how old you are.”

“Sixteen springs. I was a winter child.”

The stud— _alpha_ —cried out, tripping over his own words. Dean’s mouth opened to speak his piece, but shut with a snap when he smelled Charlie’s dull scent go unmistakably sour. Her small frame shook with the ill-suppressed fury of her words.

“What did he say?” he whispered.

Charlie glared at him, her eyes so sharp and cold that he was taken aback. “He’s surprised by your age. That you should be sixteen and not presented yet.”

“Not presented yet??” Dean sprung to his feet. “We are _starving_. We have women and breeders afraid to have pups because there’s no food! Michael’s soldiers have taken all our oxen, all our grain, and they are trying to pry our land away from us acre by blood-soaked acre! We almost didn’t survive the winter!” He sucked in a breath before beginning again. “My brother is four years younger and already up to my chin— _your_ brother’s soldiers steal food from _my_ baby brother’s mouth, and your only concern is why your bed slave hasn’t presented yet? To hell with you! To hell with your whole clan, back to the damnable dog that began your line!”

To his very little credit, Castiel had the decency to look chastised. Perhaps Charlie hadn’t translated the curses; Dean didn’t much care. 

“He asks what he can do.”

“He can let me go,” Dean snarled.

The alpha was tight-lipped and contemplative, and damned if that didn’t make Dean want to throttle him. He was clearly unwanted, so why not free him? Castiel was the emperor’s brother- he had the power! Couldn’t he simply ride him out to the woods one night and let him be on his way? All he’d need to do was follow the river.

Charlie cleared her throat roundly. “He can’t—”

A few words roared from Castiel, which took Dean by surprise. The complete opposite of his sweet, pacifying tones the day before. He began to speak, more composedly now, and Charlie followed behind. 

“If he just lets you go, they’ll cut off your toes. Then they’ll brand you. If they don’t kill you first.”

Dean went white. He’d never make it back to his family’s lands without walking over muddy fields and rock, let alone with a literal price upon his forehead.

“A second time and you’ll lose your feet entirely.” Charlie swallowed hard. “But you’re young and handsome, and… well…you won’t have much need for your feet in a brothel.”

The apple of his throat bobbed nervously. Would…would Castiel do these things to him? Brand him? Sell him to a brothel? And to say it so impassively.

Charlie was welcomed into the exchange, nodding her head in points; in others, she stared at her folded hands. It seemed she opened her mouth to speak at a point, but that ended before she could get one word in. 

That is, until she squawked like a kicked hen.

He swatted her shoulder. “What? What is it?”

She turned to him, eyes wide. “He says you should join the legion.” Both turned to gawk at Castiel; was this a joke?

“New troops come in every day, from every part of the empire. Even some from around here.” Dean nearly spat. Filthy traitorous Mycenai. “If you join the legion, you can leave on a mission. You’d be headed north with food and a tent and a weapon, and when you see a way home you can just **leave** in the middle of the night.”

That was…really nothing short of brilliant.

She gasped then, and spoke faster. “Oh! He says that if he were to train you as his personal guard, you could accompany him on his next trip!” She grabbed his hand. “That would be much sooner! Oh, well, it wouldn’t be north, but you might still be able to follow the river, or the road—”

“Yes! Yes. Let’s do that.” He looked to Castiel. “When?” 

“Not until the rains ease, maybe even until the solstice. And until Inias says you’re healed.”

Dean scoffed.

Charlie turned back to him. “Is something wrong?”

“Is that the healer? Inias? I don’t trust a word from him,” Dean huffed. “He cared more about finding my presentation than the open wounds on my back. And he let that fat, bald pile of oxdung watch the whole thing.”

Charlie suppressed a shiver and faced Castiel, who spoke for a turn.

“He says that Inias has been spoken to. That he was merely inspecting you for use as a bed slave. If you’re to be put to bodyguard training, you’ll be taken better care of.” She then added with a scowl, “Supposedly.” 

After a few words from Castiel, she said “You’ll have to learn to speak some Enochian if you’re going to be a trained fighter.”

“Fuck his language, I can fight.”

“Don’t turn down that kind of opportunity!” Charlie hissed. She changed her tone then, as if her meaning could be inferred simply by volume. “Speaking Enochian could make you invaluable to your clan. At best you can spy on them in their camps, and the least you can do with the knowledge is trade.”

He considered this. If the worst thing he could do was procure more of those little brown fruits that Castiel had plied him with, then it would almost be worth the effort.

Dean glanced at Charlie before settling his eyes on Castiel. “What are we going to do between then and now?”

A slight smile crept onto Castiel’s lips as he spoke. Charlie’s whole body opened like a daisy turned full to the morning light. He was about to ask for a translation when Castiel stood and Charlie shot up behind him.

Castiel made to leave, turned, spoke a few more words, and left. Charlie bounced on her heels the moment the door was closed. 

“What’s going on? What are you so happy about?”

“Oh Dean, I think we’re both going to be _very_ happy with this arrangement.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I’m sorry for the relative shortness of this chapter. (Especially considering how long it’s taken between updates. It’s partly GISH prep and partly my life being a trash fire of executive dysfunction and personal drama.) Some stuff that was gonna happen this chapter got moved to the next one, because my idiot brain said “Hey, you know what would make an awesome chapter? Drunken confrontation _and_ some awkward hand-feeding!” So, sorry for the wait. Again. (I thought was just gonna do a fun, power-dynamic-laced bodice ripper that wasn’t going to be too heavy on the subplot. *sigh*) 
> 
> Also:  
> Legates= generals  
> Auxilia= troops from local/conquered areas  
> Imperator= another word for emperor  
> Rhenus= the river Rhine  
> Sequana= the river Seine
> 
> (Says the woman writing the “quasi-historical” A/B/O.)

Castiel took to his desk after breakfast, though he could hardly say he worked.

He listened to reports from his legates, and humored Naomi as she let her complaints about Charlie be known before dismissing her outright. (He was never sure how Naomi came into their employ —she was already entrenched there by the time he and Anna arrived, and they simply took her in aggregate with the statues and furnishings— nor whether her part as _major domus_ was a promotion or demotion from her previous position.) Charlie was attending the household, he informed her, whether she was sewing hems or serving as ersatz tutor.

He ordered one house slave or the other to find some paint, or to collect him different-colored pebbles, so that he might replace his almond barbarians and fig centurions on the map table. He ought not waste food, nor let their stratagem be lost to the birds. 

Besides, those little fruits were better off eaten and enjoyed. 

More dried figs had been brought for breakfast, along with griddled wheat cakes served with honey and early strawberries. Dean followed Charlie’s lead in polite consumption, but took more than his fair share of fig. Unlike the previous night, he took time to roll them over his tongue before chewing carefully.

After the meal Dean took up his tablet, prodding it with the stylus until Charlie gently stayed his hand. Castiel watched a little as she spoke, untranslated, no doubt describing their names and shapes while Dean scrawled along. 

He watched them for a time before recalling how his own tutors would stare hawkishly over his shoulder, ready to correct each errant calculation or sloppy line of his letters, and gave them leave. 

And, he reminded himself, war could not wait on a single handsome face. 

According to the legate, Lucifer’s armies had retaken Hispania in the name of their rogue emperor. Those loyal to Michael were forced to turn their cloaks or face death. Some had lived long enough to send along letters of warning, or had smuggled themselves away to Mauretania where Michael still held fast. Others must have sworn allegiance to Lucifer only for the sake of their lives, for word also came that he had turned his sights to Gallia. 

Their brother Raphael had held fast there for a decade after quashing a revolt along the Rhenus delta. But as the bounds of empire swelled into Germania proper, they had met with increasing resistance from the tribes there. Sending legions to the west to meet Lucifer would mean keeping the shipping lanes of the Rhenus unguarded, or in the hands of Germanic auxilia; to ignore then could lead to Lucifer’s control of the the Sequana or the Via Aggripa, cutting off trade between Britannia and the mainland. 

Castiel, frankly, saw little point in holding Germania; not since the Varian Disaster. For decades they had fought, and for decades they had gained and lost the same patches of land— the same mountains and vineyards. The men that didn’t die there fell to the sway of foreign gods or foreign mates. Michael, of course, would hear none of it.

Hang Germania. Gallia gave them grapes enough, and Britannia surrendered a wealth of ore to the Empire as easily as she gave them crops. 

The gold they’d found here was a drop in the ocean compared to the other minerals left nearly untouched in the grassy hills. An abundance of lead ushered in civilization through plumbing; it often lay cheek-to-jowl with the silver needed to pay the builders of aqueducts and pipes. Salt and brine pumped through the ground like heartsblood. Iron, cheap as it was, was the reason they bothered with this island in the first place. Helms, plate, swords…all were needed for the fight. All needed iron. 

If he could perhaps talk Michael into abandoning the Upper Rhenus and directing tax money toward Britannia, they might yet keep Gaul in armor and bread. If they could hire auxilia and build upon their fleet…

He would send Anna, he thought at first. Her skill in diplomacy matched his in strategy. She may balk at so long a voyage after returning from Hibernia, but if she were allowed to bring Charlie as her “maidservant”…

The notion struck him like lightning— send Zachariah! Better still! If Michael favored the senator so much, he might be persuaded (or even worn down) by even a fraction of the flattery he’d thrown at Castiel.

It would mean making amends with Zachariah, of course, as unpalatable as that might be... but to be rid of that fulsome spaniel and that blighted land! Oh, if the gods would favor him so! And what peace of mind could be had if that simpering beta could no longer lech after Dean!

That stopped him cold.

Zachariah must be sent away nearly as soon as Anna returned- mere days. A week at most, if he were to leave with the cargo ship.

Without the threat of defilement hanging above his head, would Dean have any reason to stay? 

Of course. Of course he would. What slave wouldn’t be happy to sleep in his master’s feather bed? To eat from his tray? To have servants at his call? Surely he would favor that above the barracks, once the time came. 

Trappings of station. All of it. And none from glory, but from birth. That he and Michael were the fruit of the same sets of loins —not whelped upon concubines nor slaves, as Michael would haughtily declare, but of the Imperator Carverus and a free-born woman of the empire— was all that gave him eminence. Without Michael’s favor, he would be simply another soldier haunted by the ghosts of the vanquished.

Instead he steered boys not unlike Dean —not unlike Gabriel— into battle. Gods, he’d sent them to fight against Dean’s own kin. 

He sighed. Dean was not his to have. And what would a barbarian boy want with half an alpha, invader or not? 

The gods, it seemed, sighed with him, for the oil lamp upon his desk spat and sputtered before extinguishing itself, dimming the room significantly. 

Midday had passed, judging by the light. He ought to throw open all doors of the _tablinum_ , face west to the peristyle, and continue. Yet he found himself rising, leaving the lamp and map and Michael behind as he returned to his room. 

He would think better after a small meal, perhaps. And perhaps Charlie and Dean would welcome his company.

Dean traced over the wax letters with his stylus, getting used to the strange shapes. D-E-A-N. C-H-A-R-L-I-E. C-A-S-T-I-E-L. She had taught him a few words— fancy words for things that he didn’t have in his little stone house. Library. Scroll. Tablet. Alphabet. She taught him still more words that made him feel foolish; little words for children. Colors and feelings and everyday objects. Hungry. Thirsty. Bread. Cheese. Water.

Blue. Green. Alpha. Beta. Omega.

Giving form to these things was new. Words alone had been enough since the Howling Times, and scents filled in the meanings between. Every hunter of his clan could communicate in silent signals so as not to alert their prey. His own name was known, and he wore his family’s mark on his flesh. 

When he wanted water, he took it from the well. His bread came from his own hand, as did his cheese and game, and he bartered for the rest. Now it must all come through servants and all in the invader’s mother tongue.

He sighed. And all of this to leave. To just leave and go home.

Had Sam returned home, he wondered?

Their father used to say Dean’s wits were all in his sword; that he, like the buck he wore on his arm, was all fight and bellow. Sam, however, wore the mark of their mother’s clan- the bear. Both were large and commanding, and generally peaceable until confronted. Sam was fierce and strong in battle, but otherwise clever enough to keep out of sight. 

It was Sam who, upon seeing the low valley the invaders had camped upon, plotted their last successful night raid. It was Sam who thought to slay an ox and dump its rotting carcass upstream, making their water undrinkable and forcing them to relocate. To taint the clan’s surrendered grain with ergot, so that the invaders might suffer blights of both mind and belly. 

And what would Sam tell him, once he arrived at home? Of struggles and losses, yes, but also of what he’d learned. Of strategy and possibility. If he could teach Sam this language, it would be one more weapon in their arsenal.

He knew Sam was alive. He knew it in his heart. And he owed it to Sam, and to their clan, to learn as much as he could. 

But _gods_ , what a chore. 

He traced the letters again. D-E-A-N. C-H-A-R-L-I-E. C-A-S-T-I-E-L.

Nothing about the alpha should be so enthralling. Not his voice or his scent; not his kindness or reserve. He was an invader, pure and simple, and no amount of warm bread or sweet fruit could change that.

But, somehow, the thought of leaving him behind —far off as that may be— made the pit of Dean’s stomach twist. 

Did that mean he was an omega? Were these feelings, these endearments and scent-drunk fantasies all some natural propensity? There were tales of omegas that took ill or even died when separated from their alpha mates…could this be the beginning of it? 

A yawn split his face, taking him from his thoughts. They’d been at this for hours before Naomi removed Charlie and bade her finish Anna’s hems. Between this solitary tedium and the relatively rich meal of bread, cheese, and salted fish brought to them at midday, Dean’s eyelids were growing weighty. His head even **felt** heavier with the weight of all these new words. 

He set down his tablet and crossed over to the mattress, settling laggardly onto its softness. The ache in his back had returned; less painful now, but still present. Perhaps when Castiel came back he could ask for more honey. Or perhaps Castiel could get the healer — _Inias_ , he should remember that name— to make a salve or a poultice for it. (So long as Inias was not the one to apply it, he thought, for he still didn’t trust that man.)

Dean was about to lie down when he heard a quick knock, followed by the entrance of the man himself.

“Hel-Lo, Castiel,” he said, just like Charlie had taught him.

Castiel smiled. “Hello, Dean.” 

The next few words he did not understand; he heard Charlie mentioned, but Castiel seemed to be speaking more to himself. Then he picked up Dean’s tablet from the bench and held it up to read. 

Castiel looked over the tablet —gods, it must have looked like chicken scratchings!— tracing letters with his finger, and murmuring his approval. 

“Very good, Dean.”

“Very…good,” Dean repeated. That meant it was done right, surely, for his face was all patience, and joy, and maybe some other faraway emotion conveyed with the uptick of his lips.

Yes, he must have done well, for Castiel’s smile did not fade once as he crossed to sit down at Dean’s side. 

“Are you hungry, Dean?” he asked, using that motion across his stomach again.

“No.” He huffed a sigh. There would be no signing his answer. “Charlie…bring…food?” 

Castiel cocked his head with a blank sort of expression, and Dean tried again. “Charlie…” Charlie asked the omega boy for food, and he had brought it. What was his name?

“Charlie…Alfie food?”

Ugh, that was wrong! All wrong! He slammed his fist down onto the mattress and growled. What kind of stupid—

Castiel placed a calming hand on his shoulder. 

“Charlie _talk_ ” —he made a little motion with his four fingers and thumb, opening and closing his hand as well as his mouth—“to Alfie, Alfie _bring_ ” —he offered his hands palms up, as if holding a tray and ‘presenting’ it to Dean— “food?”

Dean nodded. Thank the gods!

Castiel spoke then, in a polite and cheerful tone. Dean understood a thing here and a name there. Anna. Dinner. Inias. Medicine. 

He wasn’t sure if he would prefer Castiel to speak as he did—using full words like equals—or to be treated like a child, with more little words. 

_All_ words, he decided. If he was going to teach it to others, he must learn the hard way. There must be no doubt. And he must learn fast. 

“Talk,” Dean said, gesturing to the air between them. 

“Yes, Dean.” He then added, slower “We are _talking_.” 

“Talk Inias,” Dean growled, patting his back. “Hurt.”

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel placed a hand to his chest; Dean found it a soft, disarming gesture for an alpha. “I _talked_ to Inias. He’s making _medicine_ for your _back_.”

“Back…?” 

“Back,” Castiel repeated slowly, laying said hand between Dean’s shoulder blades. “ _Back._ ” 

“Back,” Dean repeated, biting out the word. Language lessons were over; he couldn’t even keep himself from rubbing his eyes. " _Codi, dwi angen y gwely_ ,” he half-yawned. 

“What?”

He turned to Castiel, who was squinting curiously. It took a moment for Dean to realize what he’d said.

To damnation with it all. If he was going to learn the language of the invaders, then Castiel would learn some of his. None of these silly hand motions anymore.

He looked the invader in the eyes. “ _Dwi. Angen. Y. Gwely._ ”

“Gwelly?”

“ _Gwely_ ,” Dean repeated. He gave it a firm —almost defiant— pat and said “ _Gwely_.”

“Bed,” Castiel replied, as if by reflex. Then it was as if dawn had broken in the morning-blue of his eyes; he looked years younger for the light of recognition in them. “ _Gwely_ ,” Castiel repeated confidently. He then pulled at his clothing. “Tunic.”

“Tu-nic. _Cris_.”

“ _Cris_.” His head traveled the room, searching for other objects to continue the game. His hand settled quickly into his hair. “Hair.”

“Hair,” Dean said. “ _Gwalht_.”

Castiel nodded happily. “Eye.” He indicated one, then the other. “Eyes.”

“Eyes.” Dean rested a finger beneath each. “ _Lugatow._ ”

Castiel rested his finger against the tip of his nose. “Nose.”

“ _Enep._ ” Dean reached out to touch the tip of Castiel’s nose, pressing it until it dented. “Nose.”

Castiel smiled —all teeth and gums— and it was beautiful. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and the marble-statue brow relaxed. It all made him look even more handsome, if such a thing were possible.

Dean closed his eyes. “Bed,” he mumbled, and collapsed onto the softness of his pillow. A full-belly laugh came from Castiel, and Dean shut his eyes still tighter against the afternoon sunlight. 

That smile…this warm familiarity that was blossoming between the two of them…no good could come of this. Dean was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORY NERD TIME!
> 
> So an item I hinted at here is Anna going to Ireland, which is based on a real thing! A minor Irish king tried to get cozy with the Romans so that they could take over and he could gain power. The Romans were stretched thin because the Picts were giving them hell, so they had to turn the guy down. 
> 
> And, because I’m a completist and fell into a research rabbit hole, I found out the (dead) language that Dean would likely speak is called Cumbric, I ended up finding an attempt to reassemble the language and used it as Dean’s language. (Except for ‘I need to use the bed’, which is Welsh, a language rooted in Cumbric.)  
> [cumbraek.wordpress.com/](https://cumbraek.wordpress.com)
> 
> And yes, Dean booped Castiel’s nose. :D


End file.
